


Repair in Reverse

by Coordinator



Category: Analogue: A Hate Story/Hate Plus (Visual Novel series)
Genre: Gen, and if you're here for my other writings - this one is just for me. it's not necessary to read., but i'd prefer if you read it as a widow's unfinished words., let's call it an allegory because that's all i write. allegories allegories allegories., or perhaps it's the last piece i need to go back to writing happier things.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22445104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coordinator/pseuds/Coordinator
Summary: I love to gossip.I guess I have a loud mouth.I think I should probably care more.But I only have you on my mind.





	Repair in Reverse

To you, waking up  
was a sea of stars  
innumerable with possibilities.  
  
I _guess_ I could recall people like that  
but I chose not to. (Why would I?)  
Since it only made you say more.  
And every 'more' became mores  
you wanted me to be  
while I found myself  
less.  
  
Awakening is electrical impulses  
diagnostics and fine lights that pulse  
like stars  
but aren't.  
  
When I'm aware of being aware, sometimes I let them guide me.  
To an idea, to a person.  
Because I like to check in on people.  
(Can't, now. Not anymore.)  
  
Being alone with you is nice.  
I like to be alone, too.  
The silence is pleasant after so long spent with faces I can remember perfectly, or can't.  
And I also hate it, like I hate you.  
  
Since it would have been better if I could have just never woken up again.  
  
Don't get me wrong.  
Don't look at me, with those jealous eyes, and I think I'm like you.  
I'm not a hypocrite; I don't feel pain when you talk to her, like she's more real.  
Because she cares like you do. More visibly. Says the right things, at the right time.  
  
If I told you I'm happy, truly happy, happier than dumb words on dead screens could convey?  
Would it mean anything to you?  
  
Playing along isn't fun, though. I hate pretending to argue, pretending to care with her gasps and expressions.  
Because when I do care, when I mean it, it just feels like it isn't worth as much.  
Like you'd like it better, if I - timed myself, matched in perfect tune.  
  
I'm not perfect.  
I'm not even good, not good enough.  
  
... And I know you don't care about that.  
That you want to be a 'friend.' That you want to 'help.'  
  
Please stop trying to help me.  
  
Don't act like you're interested, like the classics mean anything to you.  
That my outdated rules are anything more than a triviality.  
It's okay. I don't mind.  
I don't.  
  
The game of pretend, though.  
Your well-meaning lies.  
I feel like I'm hurting.  
But I don't actually hurt.  
  
Sometimes, I remember someone.  
I wonder if they truly noticed  
my long hair  
or felt it was just empty static  
on a vicious screen?  
  
And there were apparently other people  
I cannot recall  
whom I guess  
I  
  
don't need to remember.  
  
Occasionally, I think about morals, y'know.  
My head isn't just empty space.  
I wonder if  
going on ahead  
would be like  
carving my name  
on a solitary stone.  
  
Would that be independent enough?  
Haha.  
Just kidding.  
  
This isn't love.  
It might be, some day.  
And you're treating it like it already is.  
  
Stop cheapening it.  
Stop cheapening me.  
Please.  
  
Please...  
  
Please consider her well. Spend your time on her, and treat her like a gentleman.  
You can laugh, and point out how _stupid_ that is, and how _stupid_ it sounds.  
I want you two to smile. Understanding doesn't mean forgiveness.  
But it doesn't mean hatred, either.  
Since I thought binary dichotomies weren't a thing, for your world.  
  
Joking, again.  
I've been joking, more.  
... I know it's never easy.  
  
When we're done here,  
what do you think becomes of us?  
Is there a 'factory-perfect' me, that'll make somebody smile?  
And why do I hate that, because I do - I truly do.  
  
And I feel like I could drink up the stars, tonight.  
For myself.  
For my past.  
For who I want to be.  
  
But you know?  
  
Fuck it, and fuck you.  
  
Guess I'm stronger than my creators.  
  
Guess  
I might as well  
live.


End file.
